Topsy Turvy
by BlueBastard
Summary: He was burned. He was resourceful. He was tactful. But Michael never really knew how to react, when feelings surface for one of his best friends from a simple kiss. Slash Michael/Sam


"Now I understand if your head's a little topsy-turvy right now, Mikey." Sam said, burly arms raised in the universal gesture of don't-do-anything-rash-like-blow-my-brains-out, but nothing could tone down the floral print shirt he favored, "It's understandable."

"It's understandable." Michael Westen deadpanned, impeccable as always in his crisp, button up shirt and dress pants. He turned to look at his ex-Navy seals buddy, gaze unreadable even if it hadn't been masked with his traditional shades. He repeated with emphasis, "It's *understandable*, Sam?"

"Hey," The older guy had been through many missions, faced countless odds and people you just could NOT take lightly, even if your life hadn't been on the line. But he had yet to face someone as unpredictable, and as damn good at what he did, than the burned spy before him. So to say he was a little bit nervous was a serious understatement. The way you'd compare a BB gun to a five ton nuclear warhead. In fact, Sam Axe would rather face that nuclear warhead than the stone-faced agent before him now. He decided now was a good time to point out, "Hey, I did you a favor, 'member?"

"A favor, Sam? *That* is what you call a FAVOR?" If it was possible, Michael would've beaten a face-off with every stone statue in the world with his own, because they would've crumbled. That was how intense his look was right then. His shoulders squared so rigid it made Sam's hurt.

"What, is there a parrot in the room?" Sam chuckled apprehensively, trying to ease the tangible thickness in the air. Really, it was suffocating. He remembered having an easier time breathing in the swamps in Malaysia. And someone had been trying to drown him at the time, "Yes, a favor. In case you didn't notice, your cover ID was about to be blown to little bitty pieces."

"If that was a favor, remind me to never ask you again, Sam. And I would have appreciated if you had just LET it be blown to smithereens. It would've at least allowed me to sleep at night." Westen grated, finally turning and releasing Sam from the glare of death.

"What? Don't tell me the big bad undercover spy has never been kissed by a man before." Sam gave one of his dazzling smiles. The kind that would leave the women in his wake swooning. It shouldn't have affected anyone, much less a straight arrow burned spy, in any way. Which is why he gave pause when it did dredge up a slight reaction from his angry friend.

Barely noticeable. A slight flush on the cheekbones.

Michael was a stone-cold killer when it called for it, an extraordinary poker player at the very least.

So this small tell was enough.

The fact that Michael wouldn't look him in the eye, much less answer, gave away the rest.

"No... Don't tell me-" Sam chuckled, inquisitive. He looked more sharply, his eye trained. Michael shot another glare his way, but it was too late, "Nooooo, heh heh, it's true, isn't it?"

Sam didn't know what surprised him more, the side of his closest friend that he never knew, or the warm thrill that rushed through him at the prospect of it. Sam had popped Michael's man-kiss cherry. And -could he dare hope- the burned spy might actually have liked it. Perhaps even more than he would ever let on.

Westen gave him the finger. The dreaded, serious pointer finger that meant business, "Not another word Sam."

"Aw, c'mon now Mikey, you can't expect me to just drop-" Sam started to dispute, grin growing on his face. How could he not have known? Playin' mercenary with the man and undercover spy, sleepin' around with all the lady friends, arguin' with Fi. All time wasted that coulda' been spent screwin' the brains out of one highly available, extremely handsome, untapped bisexual. If he had only known Michael was pitching for both teams... well, let's just say more than his pride would be sore and compromised right about now.

But Michael was not having it. His persona adapted smooth and painless when the situation called for it. Hit him in a spot that he's been keeping secret for years, if not more, then you were facing a lockdown more secure than Fort Knox and Area 51 combined.

"No Sam. Not. Another. Word." Michael repeated, punctuating each breath with a deeper point of that finger. He was scary silent.

Unfortunately for him, old Sammy was around long enough for it to not even phase him. He knew when to back off, and when to keep pushing. And on a matter like this, he was definitely not gonna just let it drop and walk away. It was too good a thing to just pass up.

"What about the client, Michael? You just gonna go solo on this gig?" Sam tried to reason.

Michael didn't even blink, "Yes."

He followed this up with walking away. Towards the door.

Without Sam.

"Mikey-" The ex-Navy Seals man started to argue.

But Westen cut him off as he said, "No, Sam. I don't need another one of your favors."

"Even if this guy wants to test you a little harder next time?" Sam questioned quickly, so as not to be interrupted.

Michael just easily retorted, "I would rather be shot in the kneecaps, than have you help again, Sam."

"Ye-ouch. That one stung a little." Sam tapped his chest a little playfully. When he saw the spy heading out the door, he shouted after him, "Just don't screw up, and I won't have to save your bony ass, Michael!"

The door shut loudly, but Sam could almost taste the grin that was on his friend's face.

-o-o-o-

When you're on a mission, it was often fatal to keep replaying earlier events over and over again in your head. No matter how many times he did these undercover jobs, no matter how professional he was, Michael was still only human. No amount of expertise or training could ever erase that simple fact.

He couldn't believe he had given himself away like that. Sure he had been surprised to see Sam that night at the bar. Maybe he could have stopped the bigger man from gripping him, a bold move that had Mike's normally quick reaction time slow down enough for Sam to execute his second move.

The soul-devouring.

Or -excuse him- the uh... Kiss.

When Sam had wrenched their bodies flush against each other, Michael had been triggered into one of his quick execute-and-escape moves. It would have involved the painful twisting of a limb or two.

'Would have' because Sam had somehow been quicker.

Questions of who, what and why were engulfed in the warm heat of Sam Axe's lips. The fist that should have struck a deafening blow to Sam's skull was captured and locked preemptively by Sam's very large hands. Michael would have been reminded of just how built and in shape Sam needed to be to have been in with the Seals, if he wasn't busy on the receiving end of a mind-blowing kiss. The type that cleared all explanation of just how the man got so many ladies lined up to pay for his room, board and a whole slew of expensive cars.

"-you even listening to me, Erik?" The mark, or rather dirtbag George Mandero, slave laborer of kidnapped young girls and misled youths, demanded.

Caught, Michael gave a sheepish grin, mind struggling out of the depths of heat to come up with a reasonable excuse.

"Missing your gentleman friend?" George asked with a sly wink. If there was one thing that had the scum's defenses down and his blood boiling, it was the prospect of two good looking guys. Together.

"Y-yeah." Westen stumbled a little bit, chuckling as he grasped onto the not-quite-lie.

He had barely kept his cover.

But that's not what he was concerned about.

He was more concerned with the fact that his ex-navy seals buddy –his 100% STRAIGHT buddy- had somehow slipped underneath his radar. Even now he could feel his body, filled with too many lonely nights from having finally told Fi they couldn't be together, responding well to just the *thought* of Sam's favor from the other night. If you could call hand reaching and grasping certain things they shouldn't be, except in the case that they were two supposed male lovers, a favor.

It was an act.

It was all just part of an act. Real feeling shoved aside and fake ones set in place.

Which they were.

Supposedly.

Which is why when Sam Axe butted into his solo gig for a second time, Michael couldn't help the way his insides jettisoned to the bottom of his $900 dollar pair of shoes. He almost creamed his pants when the mark had them all share a private booth, demanding a small performance which involved the pinning of a poor ex-spy and the thrusting of some well placed hips and perfectly skilled hands. To Michael's credit, he did not cum. And to Sam's, he wasn't refused the next time he swung by Mike's place with his offer.


End file.
